The Ghost's Daughter
by TheBlackSister
Summary: "Do you know who your father was?"    "I thought I did." "You were wrong."  Only original characters and plot belong to me - Leroux, Webber and Co. beat me to it. Read and review, if you will.
1. Chapter 1

1

**Welcome to ****The Ghost's Daughter****, a sequel to my newly-complete ****Crushing the Ice****. Until very recently, I was not planning on having a sequel, but the idea seemed rather tempting. I don't think it's strictly necessary to read part 1 to understand; even so, feel free to go back and read it. Don't forget to review!**

1922

The sound of crunching gravel is probably the most comforting sound I know. It tells me that home is near. And home means the opportunity to be myself, nothing more or less, and some much-needed alone time with my sister. We have been so busy these days, or rather, I occupied her with my ridiculous injury… but all in good time.

The motor stops squarely in front of the villa's main entrance. Christopher gets out and opens the doors, first on my side, then on Lovisa's. Her eyes, dreamily closed for most of the journey, open with an almost audible _whoosh_ of excitement. It's been three months since we came here last.

Well, that's almost entirely my fault. You see, Elise Mueller, yours truly, twisted her ankle in the middle of a rehearsal. Twisted it, toppled over and heard a resounding _crack_. I amaze even myself sometimes.

Lovisa, the wonderful sister that she is, took me to the hospital and barely left my side, even as I was recovering at home. My ballet career is, naturally, suspended for a while. Simply goes to show that Papa's right even from beyond the grave – didn't he tell me that my tendency to drift off will one day cost me dearly? He was always right.

I take Lovisa's arm and together we enter the hall. Nothing had changed in this house since Papa built it, and nothing will as long as one of his children live. Oh, people keep offering us grand sums of money for the place, but that is an empty hope. Not one of us will ever consider selling it. And we don't need the money.

_Vicky said she might join us_, Lovisa says. Or rather signs. She was born deaf and the system of signs Papa created for her is just another language all of us had to learn.

"Wonderful," I smile. Lovisa can easily read lips. "We haven't seen her since before Italy."

Vicky, the eldest of us all, was enjoying a stellar operatic career. She had a short engagement in a rather prestigious opera house. She was supposed to return to the States yesterday, but we were packing and thought it was best to leave her to the care of her husband.

_I expect she'll come tomorrow_, Lovisa continued, lowering herself on a settee while the bags were being brought in. _Saturday's always been our day. And Pierre's coming – that much is certain._

"Do you really think he likes that girl very much?" I ask, reaching for a hatbox to use for the pretty yellow number I just removed the pins from.

_I don't know_. Lovisa looks thoughtful. _If he does, I will not object. I liked her_.

Lovisa hardly likes anyone.

"Well, well, and here I was counting on your support," I laughed. "Did you see the way she walks? A perfect clown!"

_Not everyone is a ballet dancer, my dear_, Lovisa smiles tolerantly._ Might I remind you what happened three months ago? You weren't very graceful either._

"Fine," I say, with mock hurt. She can see it all, even if she cannot hear. We are very attuned to each other and are often together. "He better not marry her – I can't stand the thought of Pierre married. Not yet."

_Just because you aren't ready for him to fall in love doesn't mean he isn't_. Now she just looked preacherish, knowing how to wake my temper up.

"Fine," I repeat, and Lovisa is shaking with mirth. "What?"

_You look just like Papa used to when Mama argued with him_, Lovisa smiled.

"Very possible. Do you want to take a walk?" I ask out of habit, because she never says no.

On our way out the front door, we wave to Christopher, who is just getting into the motor to drive away, having brought our bags into the entrance hall. That is the law unalterable: nobody is allowed on the grounds when we are in residence. This place is our retreat, our place to be a family without intrusions.

Lovisa and I take a long-anticipated walk through the lush garden. Mother's roses are thriving. Isn't it odd how, three years after someone died, their presence can still be sensed in certain places? Our parents will live here until the Judgment day, I was certain.

_I wonder when Vicky does come_, Lovisa sighed sadly. _It isn't as though Eddy is the only one who hasn't seen her for a month_.

"Now, that's true, my dear, but he does have a greater claim on her," I chided my sister gently – half-heartedly, really, because my mind was occupied by the same problem. Well, maybe not a problem – more of a concern.

I like my brother-in-law; I really do. Edward Baker is a stellar man. He and Vicky met in Paris, of all places. She was there singing in a concert at the Garnier – hoping to be considered for a part in a more permanent production. And Edward was a guest at a dinner she was invited to. They discovered that both lived in New York, shared a love of theater – poor Eddy can't tell theater from opera, I suppose. That was five years ago. They married – Mother liked him well enough, while Vicky adored him – and the rest, as they say…

I just wish Vicky were more accessible. I hate myself for my selfishness, but I want her company. I miss the four of us being always together. We were once all the friends we desired. And now, we are drifting apart… To think that little Pierre – fine, he's twenty-two – has a… love interest…

Lovisa pushes me lightly to make me look at her.

_You mustn't think the family's falling apart, dear_, she says gently. _They want to move on, and that is fair. You can't blame them for seeking love just because you aren't interested._

"You are right, of course," I nod, "but it hurts! It hurts to think that we are not what we once were."

_But we are!_ She has the uncanny ability to be emphatic when she wishes to. _We will always be the Muellers. That was what our parents always wanted to teach us, more than music or any other form of art. That we will always be bound by blood and affection, no matter what._

I could only nod. Well could I remember that day…

* * *

It was my seventeenth birthday. Just as any family celebration, it was intimate and quiet. In the morning, I came to the theater to see the multitude of employees who had, over the years, morphed into pseudo-uncles, -aunts and such. Mr. Whitefield, a particular friend of my parents', was the one to meet me at the door and walk with me to Father's office. We talked animatedly and he teased me about being such a klutz – I can't remember what the latest of my achievements was on that day. I came into the office a little flushed from the laughter, and noticed a strange, pensive look in Father's eyes. That look will haunt me endlessly.

"Hello, Elise," he said. No one ever called me Elisabeth. Oh, that voice! It made my name sound like a prayer, like an appellation of a pristine goddess. No wonder Mother fell in love with him – what kind of a woman could resist being addressed in that manner?

"Hello, Father," I smiled, crossing the space between us and planting a kiss on the one accessible cheek. "You look awfully grim – what's the matter?" Hoping for a smile, I hastily added, "What did I do?"

"Should I ask you that?" he inquired with a glint in his eyes. "Guilty conscience, eh? Go on, then, tell me what it is."

I only laughed.

"Happy birthday, my dear," he said, growing serious again. "I wasn't contemplating any fault of yours, by the way, just the passage of time."

"Thank you, Father," I said, kissing him again. "What, do you consider seventeen to be such a very old age?"

"No," he replied, smiling again. "I was merely thinking that… you are almost a woman now. You will keep growing and attract the attention of handsome men… and come to love one of them… and marry him."

"Father!" I laughed. "I am seventeen, for mercy's sake! I doubt you'll have to worry about these things for many years to come!"

"I loved your mother when she was seventeen," he said reasonably.

"Yes, but you and Mother… aren't the typical arrangement," I said shrugging.

"That is very true," Father conceded. "I am simply being my old, suspicious, jealous self. The truth is that no man has been born whom I can consider good enough to take my daughters away from me."

I knelt, slowly lowering my head to rest on his knee. My heart rejoiced to feel his hand covering my dark hair. I spoke quietly, with all the endless conviction I felt.

"Dearest Papa, even if I do marry, I will never relinquish what I feel for you. You are the best father any of us could have been blessed with. I know I speak for all your children – you and Mother will always hold the first place in our hearts."

I could sense that he cried. This tendency was simply one of his many peculiarities that we knew and loved. It was what made him uniquely ours.

* * *

He never did see any of us leave him. Vicky didn't even know Eddy existed when Father died. I imagine some people regretted the fact that he would never hold a grandchild in his arms. I think that seeing any one of us marry would be an ordeal for him. He would always feel like the affection we held for him diminished – and would always hate himself for feeling so. It was easier for him to live with the conviction that we belonged solely to him.

Lovisa and I made a full circle around the park. We were just planning to go into the house and start unpacking, when two things occurred at once. I heard the honking of an automobile horn, and my sister's eyes widened in delighted shock.

I would recognize this motor anywhere. Pierre often called it his firstborn son. And it was Pierre who got out of the driver's side, waved jovially at us and made to open the passenger door.

For one wild moment, I thought he brought the girl – what was her name? But my mouth widened instantly.

It was Vicky.

The Muellers were home at last.


	2. Chapter 2

2

**Thank you for reading chapter 1. I hope you enjoy this one. Do let me know what you think!**

Lunch was a jolly affair. Being together made us giddy, easily susceptible to bouts of ill-justified laughter. Vicky, Lovisa and myself were busy unpacking the food Pierre brought along. Vicky accused him of seeking our company solely to be fed, and he did not deny it.

"Ooh, Elise," he said excitedly, just as I began building the sandwiches, "you know who I saw on my way to pick Vicky up?"

Winking at Lovisa, I spoke in the most innocent tone I could imagine. "How can I know _whom_ you saw?"

"Whatever," Pierre laughed. "Mark Whitefield, that's who."

"Indeed," I said dryly. "I see him every day at work – when I do work, that is."

"So I haven't had the time to stop by the theater," Pierre said, having the good grace to look abashed. "University's hard, you know."

_Oh, please._ Lovisa's scoff was almost audible. _Like Father hasn't taught you everything years ago._

"My professors don't know that," the young man grinned.

"Pierre, why are you getting a degree at all?" Vicky teased, pouring lemonade into four glasses.

"To prove that I can," Pierre chuckled. "Actually, to find a job. Architectural firms do not hire people taught solely by their fathers – a wise practice, because mine was an exception, not the rule… both our parents were."

"Yes," I agreed thoughtfully.

The conversation then moved on to Vicky, who entertained us with anecdotes of what Pierre termed "her Italian vacation." We laughed ourselves silly at those. Lovisa told us of some sketching she meant to do of the nearby river.

After lunch, Lovisa and Pierre played an intentionally dramatic chess match, while I accompanied Vicky in vocal practice on the magnificent piano that stood in the sitting room. Sunlight poured on the four of us gathered in this one room through enormous windows. I watched my siblings with earnest interest. I may not be the oldest, but I feel responsible for some portion of their wellbeing.

Vicky looks happy. She always is when she sings. She enters a world entirely of her making – just as I do when I dance. These worlds of ours are wonderful places to be; we feel so warm and safe there. The only bad thing is, we can't really talk about them. They defy description. Ah, there goes the eyebrow. You can tell Vicky isn't happy with herself just now (if I hit that note the way she did, I wouldn't be either). There, that's better, my dear. That's what practice is for, you know.

Pierre is concentrating hard. He has good reasons to; for all her love of painting, Lovisa has a formidable mind, and excels at chess. Father lost to her once, laughed and said that old age was catching up to him.

Lovisa was his favorite child. I know. I can say it quite calmly, because he had enough love for all of us. But Lovisa needed more, and he gave it in abundance.

I was five when she was born. I remember a few things from being five, most of them are sensory. Being held by Mother, smelling her roses, sitting with my head on Father's knees… There is one visual memory. It is cloudy and likely to disappear soon. That's why I cherish it while I have it.

I have since found out the background of what I saw and understood it better. But in that moment, I remember being shocked. I remember staring through a crack between the wall and the slightly opened door and seeing Father at his desk. I could not see his face; he had hidden it in his hands. His whole frame shook. My five-year old mind was wondering why Papa was so cold – true, it was the middle of December and there was heavy snowfall outside, but our apartment was always warm. Why couldn't he put a coat on? And what was that dreadful stifled howling noise, like a viciously beaten dog whimpering its last breaths? The next thing I knew, Madame Giry quietly gripped my sides from behind and carried me into bed.

It was years later that I understood. Earlier that day, it became clear that the newest addition to our family was born deaf. It was difficult to say which of my parents was more shocked, but it was fairly obvious whom this information affected more. Mother had vast capacity for acceptance; for her, this development presented its unique challenges but could be surmounted. Father was destroyed.

Oh, he wasn't ashamed or disgusted – or frightened by the challenge. No, he felt _responsible_. As if his own deformities now cursed his child. It was one of his obsessions – that his deformity tainted anyone in close contact with him. Our father was a tormented man for the length of his life. I always wondered why – I was certain that there was more to it than his face. I never found out…

"ELISE!" Pierre's voice jerked me out of my musings.

"What?" I jumped.

"I called you three times," Pierre laughed. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing in particular. What did you want to say?"

"Oh, merely that Lovisa's won." I knew already, the smug look on her face was very telling.

"Don't complain," I said, grinning. "No one at the university will know your elder sister beats you at chess."

"Like I care! I'm glad she does."

_I am certainly glad you pay more attention to blueprints than this_, Lovisa smiled, still smug.

Pierre gave a swipe in her direction, which she easily dodged.

_You have to be better than that_, she taunted.

No, life could never be dull while we were together.

* * *

Pierre and Vicky arrived on Friday afternoon and left on Sunday after tea. Vicky had rehearsals –and a husband, and Pierre had his studies. Lovisa did not need to be in the city till the next week, and I was waiting for my ankle to stop hurting every time I tried to warm up. So we stayed at the villa.

We finally unpacked and organized our belongings. Our bedrooms looked inhabited again, which felt very nice. And we read together – in French, our favorite language.

When we were growing up, language study was a vital part of our education. At home, we used French, prompted by our parents. Under Father's tutelage, we learned Italian and German – for singing, primarily. Lovisa could lip-read those as well. All of us knew a little Swedish, courtesy of Mother. She often sang us lullabies in her native tongue when we were little. It was an amazing experience – to hear the melodic chant melt together with her indescribable voice.

Lovisa smiled a little at something she had read. I followed her eyes. La Fontaine[1] was a favorite of ours. We read this particular book many times. The familiar text gave me an idea.

"Lovisa," I said, patting her shoulder to attract her attention. "What if we took a vacation – to France?"

_France? This is rather sudden, isn't it?_

"Come on, Lovisa, I miss Paris! We haven't been since the war! I won't dance for months, and when you see that gallery woman next Monday, you won't have anything to stay for. Vicky'll sing all summer – I saw her schedule. And Pierre's going on that internship trip to England. We'll be able to see him from time to time, I'm sure. Oh, do say we can go!"

Lovisa may be younger than me, but she decides quite a few things.

_Interesting idea, which, incidentally, gets me out of exhibiting my work at the Piers'. I never said I would, but they won't take a hint._

Edmund and Stephanie Piers have been after having my sister's best watercolors in their gallery for years. She thinks they are low-class and I agree.

"See? It is meant to be! Come on, Lovisa!"

* * *

"Paris?" Pierre's voice is amused. "Why not Stockholm?"

"Oh, hush," I switch the receiver to the other ear, because my right hand is now occupied in scribbling down a thought. "I just thought it's been too long, you know? Call of blood and all of that"

"I hope you don't mean The Other Son," his voice mumbles. I laugh.

"I suppose we'll call on him, but nothing more. His father died last year, you know."

"Father always did say that man'd outlive him."

"I suppose he was right…"

"You know I'm only joking, Elise. Go by all means. It will give me an excuse to slip away for a week."

"Pierre!"

"What? Am I not entitled to see my sisters every once in a while?"

I laughed. "Like it's us you want to see. You are looking for an excuse to be lazy."

"Always, sister dear."

We spoke of other things. He told me about the blueprint he was working on in his spare time. It was Pierre's way – to create blueprints for when he owned a firm and had a customer for the building. This work gave him relaxation.

"I'll show you next weekend," he promised.

"Be sure you will, dear. Well, I think it's nearly time to help Lovisa with dinner."

"Bye!"

I moved into the kitchen, where Lovisa was peeling potatoes. We had already planned the menu, so I found a task rather quickly. Making sure she could see my face, I began the rather delicate subject.

"Pierre asked me if we are going to call on the Count de Chagny."

_I've considered the matter. I suppose we should._ She busied herself with the knife again.

"I think so, too. I also think we ought to write ahead, but make it clear that no assistance is necessary. The last thing I want is to be invited to stay with him – he will think it's his brotherly duty."

_He will. He is a nice man, you know. Just because our father couldn't stand his doesn't mean we are in a feud. I like him._

"Well, Papa had reasons for feeling the way he did. So we'll just call, come to dinner if he asks us, and do our own thing."

_Which is?_

"Walking around Paris! Seeing the old Garnier – I'm sure we could get tickets. We must also see where Madame Lefort's gone off to. Visit Madame Giry's grave."

_That we should. Poor lady!_

"When she died, I felt like I lost a grandmother."

Lovisa nodded.

_And we must go to the Bois, just like in the old days._

"Right you are, and the Luxembourg!"

We continued to plan all through dinner. Paris was an old friend, a hometown of sorts. We went there every summer till Father died and the war began. Mother wanted to see the city of her youth one more time, but her strength waned and, once the war was over, she was too ill to go. She loved Paris more than almost any other place on Earth. So did Father, but he rarely admitted it.

_Elise, do you think Paris looks so very dreadful now?_

"The war's been over for a few years now, you know."

_Yes, but some scars heal slowly._

"I'm sure it's still beautiful, dear. It'll be summer, and everything will bloom. We will find an apartment and be happy."

_And have some adventures!_

"You are too old for such nonsense. What scrape can we possibly get into?"

_You never know…_

I was to learn that sometimes, Lovisa was too right for her own good.

[1] Jean de La Fontaine – French author, primarily famous for his fables.


	3. Chapter 3

3

**Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!**

I was furious.

That barely describes it. I was filled with such rage that it was almost scaring me. My hands itched to break, shatter, twist. Especially if that something was Stephanie Piers' neck.

How dare she!

I down my glass of wine in one gulp and pour another one. No, I'm not going to overindulge. I simply need my hands full.

That woman!

Lovisa enters the room. She had taken her hat off and is in the process of removing her gloves. She has a way of doing it that is incredibly elegant, aristocratic. The gloves are placed onto the nearest side table, and she lowers herself wearily into the armchair.

_Elise, don't let it upset you so much. I never sought her good opinion, anyway."_

"It's not her good opinion I care about. She will continue to flash her superficial taste at every possible opportunity, and you may not be exhibited where you wish."

_She is not God, whatever she believes. And I do have a certain standing. You know, being a Mueller helps, even if it shouldn't._

"You deserve every bit of it," I said confidently.

_Thank you, darling, but all the same, you mustn't be so angry. Mrs. Edwards accepted, didn't she? My paintings will be displayed in her gallery next week. What else do I want?_

"My poor, forgiving sister," I mumble. Her face changes.

_I will accept no words of pity. I am not in need of them._

"You know I didn't mean it that way." I knew how sensitive she was.

_I know. I'm sorry, dear, I suppose I'm more affected than I thought… do you want to have some tea?_

"Wonderful idea."

While she was gone, I circled the room three times. Walking always helped with any strong emotion. Thinking that this wasn't enough, I went into the music room, sat at the piano and began to play the tune of Un Bel Di[1], which never failed to calm me down.

As was arranged almost a month ago, Lovisa and I arrived at Regina Edwards' art gallery promptly at nine-thirty. The secretary, whom we both knew since time immemorial, looked slightly uncomfortable as she led us through to the main office. We didn't have to wait long to see the source of her disquiet; loud, familiar laughter erupted from the slightly open door.

"Regina, surely you don't mean it?" Stephanie… I did wonder what she was doing there.

"I do, Mrs. Piers. I think it's a great honor, actually." Her calm tones were always pleasant on the ear.

"You, who can afford Rembrandt, are willing to display a questionable local talent? I was _praying_ it was only a rumor!" That woman had the annoying habit of speaking in italics.

"Mrs. Piers, I don't quite understand you. This is Lovisa Mueller we are speaking about, and her artistry is unquestionable. The young woman is a genius." If I could, I would kiss old Edwards right now.

"Only because of her parents' reputation." How dare she! The woman obviously never sat through what Papa called "a bit of practice in the evening" and the rest of the world termed "a dress rehearsal." His quality control was barely possible to pass. I suddenly remembered with gratitude that Lovisa went to the powder room to freshen her makeup and therefore did not ask what was wrong. I heard her footsteps, shot a warning look to the secretary (the clever woman went into the office to announce our arrival), and turned a blithely innocent face to my sister.

_What's wrong?_ she asked immediately. Silly, perceptive girl!

"Nothing, dear – the lady just went in to announce us." My smile widened, probably making me look positively idiotic. The secretary – I'll send her flowers tomorrow – chose that moment to exit the office and declare us to be expected inside.

If I had so much as a hint of what would follow, I would have run away, dragging Lovisa along. But clairvoyance is not among the skills I'm known for (if, indeed, such exist).

"Welcome, ladies," Regina beamed. She looked relieved – small wonder, anybody would be a reprieve from that Stephanie woman's company. The abovementioned damsel took her time drinking tea, and had the insolence to ask us if we minded her presence while she was enjoying it.

Well, what possible answer was there, except to say that _no, we did not mind in the least_… oh, that hag!

Regina proceeded to discuss the arrangements with Lovisa. I acted as my sister's interpreter. They agreed fairly quickly; most details were already settled ahead of time. Even I admitted that Mrs. Edwards was rather generous… she could recognize talent when she saw it.

"Miss Mueller," a sweet – _sickly sweet_ – voice came from Stephanie's direction.

I turned my head. She smiled. "I was addressing Miss Lovisa," she elaborated. Insufferable woman, how was Lovisa to respond if she was looking at Regina? I swallowed my outrage, and gently tapped my sister's shoulder, motioning her to look at the woman.

"Miss Mueller," the snake continued, completely unperturbed and unapologetic, "your paintings dear Mrs. Edwards has shown me are very reminiscent of some I saw at the Riviera a few months ago. They really are excellent copies."

Stunned silence followed this announcement. Lovisa gaped at the woman, barely noticing her surroundings. Regina gave a disgruntled huff – she saw directly through the disgusting insinuation. I, however, rose slowly to my feet, ready to pounce, but betraying nothing. When I spoke, a low hiss escaped my lips.

"My sister does not steal from other artists, Mrs. Piers. She is a creator in her own right."

"Really, I claimed nothing of the sort, I merely commented on the style similarities," Stephanie blinked innocently.

"That is utter nonsense." Regina said confidently. "The subjects of the paintings are completely different. And Miss Mueller's brushstrokes are very distinct. I will hear no more of this."

"Oh, everything about the Muellers is distinct," Stephanie said. "Eccentricity and singularity run in their blood – particularly where art is concerned. One only has to look in Paris Opera house to see." She rose and left. Regina watched her retreating back, muttering something about lunacy.

We left soon afterwards. It was silly of me to be so angry about an ignorant comment of this nature, but there was the sheer malignancy of it. No one in their right mind would suggest or believe such a thing. Why would she expose herself as such a fool?

And what was that about the Garnier? Why would Stephanie mention it at all? Did she know – well, everyone knew my mother used to perform there. What could she possibly mean? My parents met there, that much I knew. It was the only place Father frequented in those days. It was there that he secretly taught Mother to sing. They never spoke of those days at great length.

Lovisa brought the tea. I composed my face into an expression of slight annoyance rather than fury. She sipped her tea thoughtfully and then, placing her cup on the table, asked.

_What do you think she meant by mentioning Garnier?_

"I haven't the first idea, dear," I replied. "She hardly knows more about our parents than we do."

_Sometimes I wonder whether we knew them at all._

"If we didn't, who did?" I said reassuringly. "Lovisa, darling, you mustn't give in to doubt. It's true we know very little about our parents' youth; why, we barely know the names of Father's parents! What we do know, however, is that we loved them and they loved us, and that they were the best parents anyone can think of."

Lovisa nodded fervently.

* * *

We left in late June, when all affairs were settled and Lovisa's work hung securely at the Edwards' gallery. As a spur-of-the-moment decision, we boarded the ship that was to carry Pierre to England. We would take another boat to France once he was settled in London.

None of us was particularly familiar with the heart of United Kingdom. Which is a pity, because I love British literature. Austen and the Brontes are my constant companions since an early age. Even so, any voyage to Europe seemed to bypass the worthy isle.

We deposited Pierre at the establishment his university arranged for the interns. Here – and in the imposing building a few streets away, he would work on blueprints for the next four weeks. Except for the times when he'd sneak off to visit us in France, as he swore he would.

While in London, Lovisa and I accomplished several things. Besides a spot of hunting for antique books and scores, we discharged the slightly awkward duty of writing to the Comte de Chagny, our half-brother. It was expected that we would call on him while in Paris. Neither of us really wished to go, and we weren't entirely certain he wished to see us as much as he said he did, but politeness must be kept alive. Our mother gave birth to him as well, and loved him very much. We couldn't ignore that.

When Mother became ill for the very last time, he came to her with almost unrealistic speed. His father, an aging man himself, was too indisposed for the journey and stayed in France. Gustave said he had insisted on going no matter what; but the heir was persuasive enough. The old man stayed, and never saw his onetime wife again. I always found it a little sad.

I had seen the old Comte all of two or three times when I was a child and Father brought me along with the others to Paris to take Mother away from her time with Gustave. All three times were entirely unintentional, as far as Father was concerned.

The last of these meetings stands out in my memory. I was just over seventeen. Father was somewhere with Pierre and the girls; I was entrusted with meeting my mother in the Tuileries Gardens, where she would say good bye to her son.

Mother sat on a bench of gray stone, very close to the boy – young man, really, since he was at least ten years older than any of us. She stood out in a smart plum dress that was made just before she sailed for Europe. A wide-brimmed matching hat obscured much of her face.

Gustave, the Vicomte de Chagny, wore a rather simple dark gray suit that blended in with the bench. He was young and very handsome, rather reminiscent of his father's looks, I supposed. I approached them and cleared my throat.

"Elise, there you are… I began to wonder." It was true, I was a few minutes late.

"Sorry, _Maman_, but there was a little bookstore that delayed me. Hello, Gustave." Mother insisted we call each other by first names.

"Good afternoon, Elise. I trust you are enjoying Paris?" His voice was quite pleasant.

"As always," I grinned.

"We are just waiting for my father," Gustave continued. "He wished to wish Mother a safe journey, unless you are in a hurry."

"Not particularly," I replied. "Papa may be a little concerned if we are too late."

"I shall speak to him," Mother said. "Besides, here's Raoul now."

If I had to describe Raoul de Chagny with one word, it would definitely be "stately." He walked with an aristocratic grace that was difficult to match. A nobleman to the core, this lion came to us and bowed, tipping his hat off to all three at once.

"I am happy to see you before you left, Christine," he said. "Good afternoon, Elisabeth, Gustave."

We mumbled our greetings – or I did. Nobody calls me Elisabeth!

"Hello, Raoul," Mother said warmly. "I trust I find you well?"

"Quite so," he flashed a dazzling smile at her. Really, did he forget his age? "Elisabeth, it is not often that we have the pleasure of you company, child."

"I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid my company is not pleasant enough to be missed," I replied with a cool expression.

"Nonsense, you are a very pleasant girl indeed. The only reason you do not enjoy socializing is lack of practice, and I cannot imagine why you lack it." The latter half of his statement dripped in irony.

"Not everyone enjoys gossiping with a roomful of busybodies, Raoul," my mother said sharply. "We are a private set. The little family time we get is precious. We do not squander it."

"Of course, of course," the Comte chuckled. "I was simply remarking on the similarities between parents and children." I saw Gustave shift uncomfortably.

"We should be going," Mother said, looking very displeased. "Erik will be looking for us. Good bye, darling," she added, kissing the young man on the cheek. "Good bye, _Monsieur le Comte_." Her tone was angry. She took my arm and literally dragged me away – not that I wasn't thrilled to leave.

Weeks have passed since Stephanie's spiteful comment, and I cannot forget it. I cannot think what she had meant. I knew she disliked us, but never quite knew why. And what about the blasted Paris Opera?

There was something else that almost frightened me. I had received a letter on the eve of our departure. I never told anyone about it.

_Miss Elisabeth Mueller,_

_Long live youthful fancies! Your family posed a charming façade, but some secrets never die. They rise, like corpses in still water. Had your father lived, he would have given you an expert opinion._

_You will visit Paris, the city of your idyllic youth. While there, be sure to visit some acquaintances of mine – Messrs. Firmin and Andre – and ask them if they believe in ghosts._

_Kind regards,_

_Your obedient servant._

[1] The most famous aria from Puccini's Madama Butterfly


	4. Chapter 4

4

**Come on – all these reads and so few reviews? I am very curious what you think! As always, thanks for reading.**

Paris met us like a dear old friend. Its familiarity did much to soothe my frayed nerves. At least, Lovisa didn't know… the particulars of my disquiet.

That something was wrong with me, she knew instantly. But that's the kind of person she is; if you want to cry on her shoulder, you come to her, never the reverse. She will leave you and your secrets respectfully alone until you do.

I wasn't sure what to do. The letter lay folded in my pocketbook and weighed heavily on my mind. What did it mean? And who wrote it?

The second question I had a vague answer to. Stephanie, in her malignancy against us, but Lovisa most particularly, could have easily composed it, especially since the content matched her sentiments in Regina's office. The handwriting may not have been hers – I knew her hand, but the idea had to have been. The questions still remained – how and why?

We secured a small and cozy apartment in a quiet, secluded spot quite a distance away from all the popular destinations. It had one bedroom with two beds, a sitting room with an upright piano, and a dining room, barely large enough for the rectangular table that was its focal point.

After a day of settling in and storing away some provisions, we, as was prearranged, wrote to the Comte again. While the note was delivered, Lovisa proposed to go to the Garnier to begin our search for Mme Lefort.

Mme Lefort, or Meg as we knew her, was an old friend of my mother's. For a long time, she was a dancer in Father's theater. When her mother fell ill and wished to die on her native soil, Meg followed her to France. After Mme Giry died, Meg simply remained in Paris, securing a position at her old home, the Garnier. We lost touch halfway through the war, however, and were eager to find her again.

Garnier had not changed. The pompous foyer greeted us with its familiar self-satisfied pride. The statues gazed at us in mute condescension.

We had written ahead and were accordingly expected. The current manager, M. Renard, stood at the foot of the grand staircase with a cordial smile on his face. Being the sister to an opera star had its perks…

"Mademoiselle Mueller, Mademoiselle Mueller," he bowed and kissed our hands. "What a delight, what a pleasure – I am quite overwhelmed. Please follow me."

We were led into a simply, yet tastefully furnished office. It contained a large desk, a leather armchair behind it, two inviting chairs in front, and a set of chairs lining the walls. The walls, I must remark, were completely covered in posters from various productions. I scanned them quickly – the usual traditional repertoire – Gounod, Verdi, Puccini, and so forth.

"Do sit down, ladies," Renard said jovially, following his own advice as he spoke. "Such an honor to see you in my office – the daughters of the greatest star our stage has ever known."

"Surely you exaggerate?" I smiled. "Your stage has really not known my mother as a singer all that much; a handful of Marguerites and one Elyssa – that's hardly enough."

"Well, but we had the honor of being her first stage," he grinned. "That should count for something. However, I wish to know how I may be of use to you."

"Yes, thank you. You see, Monsieur, my sister and I were looking for an old friend – Madame Lefort. She used to be employed here, and we thought you may know where she is. Letters stopped during the war…" I shrugged helplessly.

"Madame is still employed here," he replied. "She is the ballet mistress – her mother trained her well. If you wish to, I can call her here."

"Don't trouble yourself, just tell us where she is," I said, unable to restrain my wide smile. I was afraid she had died or was ill. What a relief!

"She ought to be finishing the morning rehearsal on the stage. Let me lead you…"

"We know the way – don't trouble yourself, Monsieur. Many thanks for your assistance." We bid a hasty goodbye and left him.

The auditorium was cloaked in semidarkness, against which the stage seemed especially bright. M. Renard was right – the rehearsal was drawing to a close.

"Very well done, all of you – be sure to do the same tonight," a confident voice resounded across the hush of the space. "Go take a break now." She made to leave, but I was quicker.

"Meg!"

Long ago, Meg, still Giry at that time, laughingly told me the story of meeting Vicky for the first time, Vicky being three weeks old. Mother introduced her as Auntie Meg.

"I felt older than my own mother," the woman had laughed. And so, we called her Meg, despite the age gap.

Meg had married late – I was around nine when that happened. I had always supposed it was because she inadvertently presented too carefree an image of herself to be noticed by decent, dependable men. Up to her meeting Albert Lefort, she dismissed male attention with a graceful wave of a hand. She loved her art too much to be easily swayed by meaningless flirtation.

Now, hearing my voice, she almost jumped.

"Elise, is that you?" she strained to see through the blinding light and darkness.

We moved closer to the pool of light. Meg gave an excited squeal, entirely inappropriate for her matronly look, and practically ran off the stage. Lovisa and I turned around, knowing what she intended to do.

Sure enough, the woman came running through the open doors and, quickly approaching, caught us in a huge hug.

"My little girls, Christine's little girls," she sobbed. "Oh, I never thought I'd see you again!" She pulled away, gazing hungrily at us. "This ridiculous darkness – come to my quarters, I must get a good look at you."

Meg dragged us across hallways until we reached a small sitting room that must have belonged to her. A couple doors led to the other rooms of the apartment.

"Let me look at you," Meg said, facing us. We were grinning rather foolishly, I believe, but the occasion justified it.

Meg had changed very little, and those were mostly subtle changes, apart from the overwhelming whiteness of her hair. Her once sharp features smoothed out, but her eyes, rather contrarily, I thought, became slightly sterner, more reminiscent of her mother's.

"Tell me everything," she said, plopping down on the nearest chair and then jerking up again. "I am such a useless hostess – tea, coffee?" We both preferred tea just then.

"Come into the kitchen – you are family," Meg said with a little laugh. "But do talk; tell me how Christine is," she continued, busy with the teapot.

I knew this would be the first question. I waited until her hands were empty.

"Mother died three years ago, Meg," I said.

Meg did not scream or moan or shudder. She raised her previously bent head and turned to face me. The kitchen suddenly seemed too small.

"I can't say this is unexpected," she said finally. "When Lovisa wrote to say that your father died, I … knew it wouldn't be too long. He would call and she would follow; it was always like that between them."

_I don't quite understand_, Lovisa said, looking puzzled. _Always?_

Meg gave a cheerless laugh. It sounded like a cry of pain. "Neither did anybody else. But it isn't my place – he made Christine happy, and that is all that mattered. Albert is dead too, you know," she added.

_Oh, no, Meg_, Lovisa touched her arm gently. The elderly woman smiled.

"I've had the time to get used to the idea – since 1916, to be exact. He felt he had to go, and…" Her eyes darkened for a moment, and then she returned to making tea.

Her husband was a doctor. He must have felt he was called upon because of his skills.

"I'm sorry, Meg," I said. "As useless as that sounds, I'm sorry."

She shook her head, still not stopping juggling the tea utensils.

"Don't worry about it. I know that your pity is at least sincere, unlike that of many others."

The water bubbled.

We did not refer to her loss all through teatime. We spoke of the latest production and gossip – little by little, Meg returned to her old cheery self. She visibly relaxed, for which I was grateful. It hurt me to see her in pain.

"… and then, the manager simply decided to replace the sick girl with a trainee – not even an understudy yet! Poor soul was shaking like a leaf, what a debut to have, and only just fifteen! At fifteen, your mother and I danced in the very back, praying to be completely shielded by the people in front."

_Dreadful_, Lovisa nodded along.

"Quite right, my dear. And Mademoiselle Andre isn't helping my temper, either… Elise, are you well?"

Meg had good reasons to ask. My face turned pale with the mention of that name, and I all but dropped the teacup in my hand. The note, still in my purse, suddenly seemed to radiate heat.

"Fine, I'm fine," I muttered, cursing my lack of self-control. Both Meg and Lovisa gaped at me with concern.

_Are you sure?_ Sweet sister, I will not tell you, not yet. No need to frighten you over a trifle… I hope.

"Yes, I am not sure what happened… I felt faint," I said lamely. Neither really believed me. "Who is this girl, Meg?"

"My personal punishment," Meg said, taking a sip. "She is the granddaughter of a certain M. Giles Andre. He used to be a co-manager here, along with a chap named Firmin. Gabrielle Andre, that's her full name. Her grandfather is convinced she is a gifted singer, you see… well, he is pulling strings. She can't carry a tune, and I'm the one the chorus master pours his troubles to!" The woman shook her head.

_You poor soul_, Lovisa said, suppressing a giggle at the exaggerated look of martyrdom on the face of our friend.

"Andre never did have much sense," Meg laughed weakly. "He is quite old too, which doesn't help matters. Oh, it _is_ a pity there's no one to knock some sense into people these days – who would have thought I'd miss…" She stopped abruptly.

_Miss who?_ Clever Lovisa, just what I meant to ask.

"No one in particular," Meg said uneasily. "Every once in a while, there is a forceful person in a position to berate the ones in charge – like my mother, for instance. But I don't have the energy, or the will."

* * *

_What do you think she had meant? _Lovisa asked me when the cab door was shut behind her.

I knew exactly what she referred to.

"I can't explain it," I said. "It was as though she felt she said too much."

_Exactly_, Lovisa nodded. _Why do you suppose she would feel that way?_

"I don't know. Maybe it's something truly scandalous," I suggested half-heartedly.

_This is Meg you are talking about! If it were scandalous, she'd tell us in a heartbeat!_

I laughed, but the only possible conclusion made me stop. "Maybe," I said, choosing my words carefully, "it's something scandalous she doesn't want _us_ to know."

Lovisa nodded. _I don't see any other explanation._

When we arrived to our apartment, I retired to the bathroom to change out of my visiting dress into something more homey. Having accomplished that, I dug the note from the bottom of my purse.

_Corpses in still water. Andre. Firmin._

Years later, I still didn't know whether to regret my next action – looking up the gentlemen's respective addresses in the directory.


	5. Chapter 5

5

**Please do tell me what you thought! Even if you didn't like it, tell me why. Oh, and don't be surprised if you see a detail from Leroux here and there.**

That Saturday was the date for which our visit to our auspicious half-brother was set. We were invited for lunch – and some conversation before or afterwards, I presumed.

We arrived promptly at eleven-thirty. I was in a dark blue suit, Lovisa wore green. A prim butler led us into a room on the ground floor, informing us that Monsieur would join us momentarily.

I had a feeling of being in a museum. The walls of the large room were covered with crimson silk that also covered the cushions of the furniture. Portraits littered them with grand effect; some were larger than others. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

_Have a look._

Lovisa led me to the stretch of the wall between two windows. A portrait hung there.

She was a very beautiful woman in her early twenties. Chocolate curls that framed her pale face were arranged into a breathtaking cascade that fell down to softly brush bare shoulders, revealed by the cut of a cherry-red gown. Blue eyes – much like Lovisa's – watched us with polite interest. Fragile fingers clasped a white fan.

She was our mother.

To see her here, in the house of a veritable stranger, was unnerving to say the least. To think of her as belonging to a man other than Father – sitting at his dinner table, entering parlors on his arm, giving him a son – was sickening. I could not explain or justify the fierce possessiveness that overpowered me at that moment. She was m y mother!

"She sat for that six months after I was born." I jerked myself around, feeling like a thief caught red-handed. Lovisa turned around gracefully… _of course_.

Gustave had changed very little in the three years that passed since Mother died. He was still tall, still blonde like his father – but for the first time, I saw traces of Mother – my mother – in him. The straight nose, the curve of the chin, the pallor of his cheeks were hers as well. I didn't like that.

"Hello, Gustave," I said cordially, allowing his embrace and watching a similar greeting being bestowed upon my sister.

"Hello, Elisabeth, Lovisa," he said – warmly, gladly. Lovisa smiled at him – she is a much better person than I am.

He led us to a cozy-looking sofa and seated us, placing himself in a chair opposite.

"I am so glad to see you," he said, and the sincerity in his tone was touching. "The last time we met was … difficult."

The last time we met, it rained. We stood beside Mother's freshly sealed grave.

"Yes," I managed to say.

_We are sorry about your father_, Lovisa said earnestly.

"Thank you. He had a quiet end – we couldn't have asked for more than that." Gustave's face darkened with pain.

_Was he ill?_

"Not exactly," Gustave said thoughtfully. "There was no solid reason for it – he simply grew weaker and weaker. Eventually, he was unable to rise from his bed, then he lost appetite…"

Strange – it was as if he were describing the demise of my mother. No concrete illness, just wasting away with silent grief.

_I understand_, Lovisa said, her expression sympathetic. I witlessly translated her sentiments.

"Yes, it was very much like Maman's death," Gustave nodded. "I was amazed… he talked of her incessantly, you know."

"Did he?" I inquired, feeling as if this conversation could have gone so much better.

"Yes… he loved her to the last. He blamed himself for alienating her and not appreciating her true importance in his life before she left him." Gustave's brow furrowed. "I never considered this detail before, but… when he was delirious, he kept repeating words that were rather odd."

"What?" I asked, my mouth dry.

"'I wish I killed him then,'" Gustave said. "Repeated it like a mantra. I didn't really take it seriously – he was delirious."

A chill descended on our little gathering. It was broken by the sound of an opening door. Gustave rose.

We knew he had married a year ago, and this was the first time we met the new Comtesse.

"Amelie," Gustave said with a smile. "You are just on time – I would like you to meet Elisabeth and Lovisa Mueller, my sisters. Ladies, my wife, Amelie." Only then did he notice the rather sour look on his wife's face. "Darling?"

"I am very pleased to meet you," Amelie said, shaking our hands and trying unsuccessfully to conceal annoyance. "Gustave, I know this is a terrible time, but Gabrielle is here again, and Mme Giudicelli with her. They demand to see you."

The effect was profound. Gustave paled, groaned and spoke.

"Bring them in here – perhaps they will leave if they see we have company."

"I doubt it," Amelie replied. "I told them we were in the middle of a family visit, but they might as well not have heard me." She sighed, pulling the bell cord on the wall.

The prim butler returned.

"You will find two ladies in the green drawing room, Jacques," Amelie said. "Show them in here." When the man was gone, she turned to us. "This is unpardonable of us, but I hope you are disposed to forgive us."

"Who are these women?" I asked.

"Well," Gustave spoke wearily, "my family is one of the key donors to Opera Garnier, ever since my father began that tradition. He helped restore it when the building burned down. Two years ago, a new soprano was accepted into the company. I hate to say it was primarily due to her advantageous connections – her grandfather is a former manager of the house, and her voice teacher was once quite renowned – Madame Giudicelli."

Gustave poured himself a glass of water, offering to do the same for us. We shook our heads, intrigued.

"The young lady has been complaining that she is given small, insignificant roles," he continued. "I frankly sympathize with poor Renard; the girl is mediocre at best, but can make his life very difficult indeed – already has, in fact. The lady and her teacher are trying to make me intercede on their behalf…" He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

The image that I can't forget if I tried is an incongruous one – or it was under the circumstances. It is that of Mme Giudicelli, sweeping majestically into the room, and of my hand touching Gustave's elbow. It was the first gesture of support I gave to him unconsciously. Somehow, I felt he needed it and from me in particular. I saw his eyes widen for a moment; but he was a born aristocrat and could veil any emotion.

"Monsieur le Comte," the stately woman began, "it is so very kind of you to see us even as you have company." She gave us a theatrical bow.

Madame Giudicelli was an elderly woman, with traces of once significant beauty. Her speech was tinged with Italian accent, probably softened by years in Paris. There was something queenly in her carriage, something that plainly indicated being accustomed to preferential treatment. It was strange to hear her described as a voice teacher; her voice had no musicality at all.

The young girl, roughly my age or a little younger, was one with pale complexion. Watery blue eyes, pale skin and light rosy lips did not denote anything extraordinary; in fact, she was very overshadowed by the flamboyant presence next to her. I have neglected to say that Mme Giudicelli was dressed in bright fall colors, which suited her brown coloring.

"Welcome, ladies," Gustave said cordially. "Do sit down – and allow me to present the Mademoiselles Mueller, my maternal sisters, Mademoiselle Elisabeth and Mademoiselle Lovisa. Sisters, this is Madame Carlotta Giudicelli and her protégé, Mademoiselle Gabrielle Andre."

Carlotta?

That name was familiar. As I smiled politely at the now seated duo, I remembered one of the very few times my parents mentioned their past.

* * *

We were having tea, I think. Father was complaining – not such a rare occurrence – of a girl who came to audition for the chorus. Mother was suppressing a smile, which was quite apparent to both Vicky and I; Father was too busy muttering his dissatisfaction.

"… the girl has no sense of pitch whatever, I can already visualize her career. With the right patron, she will become yet another of those overrated divas in an opera house with no standards. A proper Carlotta!" he finished, taking a sip of tea to calm himself. A strained giggle escaped Mother's lips.

"Who, Father?" Vicky inquired curiously. Father's mouth twitched.

"A talentless, useless woman who is full of herself and self-imposed value, tone-deaf on occasion," he muttered audibly.

"She was the leading soprano at the Garnier when I began singing," Mother explained. "Your father harbors some resentment for her due to her inability to measure up to his standards."

"Are you telling me that any rational human being can listen to that woman and_ not_ lose his patience?" Father asked, looking sharply at his wife from across the circular table.

"Well, she did have fans, you know," Mother shrugged.

"I do not doubt it," he replied acerbically. "Madmen have all sorts of odd symptoms, my dear. Maybe women who sounded like cats being tortured were simply in vogue back then, and I didn't know."

"I thought she was a toad," Mother said, blinking innocently. I was grateful for not drinking any tea just then, as the mad laughter that overcame me would have definitely made me spill it.

"A toad, Father?" I wheezed. "You called this poor soul a _toad_?"

"I said 'perhaps,'" he replied with a smirk.

* * *

"_Mueller_?" Mme Giudicelli's whole mien changed from the detached socialite to a desperately curious one. She looked us both over – I had the distinct impression of being somehow sized up.

"How very curious," she said at last. "I have heard of your arrival, and I hoped to meet you – I just had not realized it would be so soon."

"I…" How does one answer that? "I am flattered, Madame."

"Oh, no, I'm the flattered one," she said in a sugary tone that ruffled me considerably. "To meet a member of such a prominent family… I've never dared to presume…" Every emotion on her face seemed aimed at pleasing me; I was rather uncomfortable. Amelie was the first to do something about it.

"Well, Madame, and to what do we owe the pleasure?" she asked. The woman finally took her eyes off me. I felt strangely drained.

"I was simply hoping to find you in good health and spirits and remind you of the dinner I am giving this Wednesday," she said smoothly. "And may I be so bold as to ask the Mademoiselles to be my guests as well? Most of us will be artistic people, so you will feel at home."

I sincerely doubted that… I glanced at Lovisa.

_We can hardly refuse_, she said. _I hate pretending having an engagement. Accept her, Elise._

And so I did.


	6. Chapter 6

6

**I really, really wish to hear what you've thought of this one! Thanks to those who read and review!**

I hate lying to Lovisa. This time, it couldn't have been helped.

She went to the Louvre. I knew she wanted to go alone – she hates company when looking at art. I said I didn't know what I wanted to do just yet.

I did. I had an appointment.

When I arrived at the apartment, I was greeted by an elderly maid and led into the sitting room. Everything looked as though Time itself froze here; the décor, the furniture belonged in the previous age. The walls were hung with landscapes and pastoral scenes.

My host was very prompt, despite being in his mid-eighties. He moved with some difficulty, but looked alert. He asked me to sit down and did the same.

"So you are the daughter of the Daae girl," he said. "Sordid affair, the entire thing. Never quite understood what the girl was about."

Well, that was a start. I didn't know how to feel about that.

"Mueller," he said. "Did your mother marry a German?"

"No, my father was a Frenchman," I responded.

"You know, I always wondered," Giles Andre's eyes glistened with curiosity. "I always wanted to confirm my theory. Tell me about your father, Mademoiselle. Is it true that he had an incredible singing voice?"

"Yes, Monsieur," I said quietly.

"And he wore a mask?"

"Yes, but everyone knows that," I said.

"But I wanted to hear it from your lips, Mademoiselle," he said. "I am certain that I … but first, how did you know to find me? All you've said so far is that you know I knew your parents and that you were curious about your mother's career before she became the Countess. How do you know about me? Did your parents ever mention my name?"

"No, Monsieur, but I have received an anonymous note advising me to speak to you and Monsieur Firmin," I replied.

"An anonymous note!" he guffawed. "Astonishing, and was it signed in any way? May I see it?"

I left it at home and told him so. "It was signed 'Your obedient servant.'"

"Clearly, it had to have been someone well informed," the man spoke thoughtfully. "Mademoiselle, have you ever heard of the Phantom of the Opera?"

"Who?"

"Of course, and yet you are his daughter."

I gaped at him. The maid chose this moment to bring tea in. As soon as she left, Monsieur Andre fixed me with a stare.

"Do you know who your father was, Mademoiselle?"

"I thought I did."

"You were wrong." His eyes expressed something akin to pity, and yet curiosity at the same time. "You see, Mademoiselle, around forty years ago now, I had the honor of becoming one of the managers of the then-called Opera Populaire," he began. "I was rather pleased with myself, and only slightly annoyed by the highly superstitious nature of all the staff. They were all in awe of that Phantom fellow – convinced that he was a ghost that haunted the opera house. I thought it ludicrous, of course, until I began receiving notes signed 'Your obedient servant, O.G.' Opera Ghost," he added, seeing my confusion. "The contents were varied – demands for salary, instructions concerning productions… Here," he rose, walked to a bureau and took out an envelope. "Have a look, this is one of them."

I unfolded the yellowed sheet paper, once rather expensive judging by the quality. A small gasp escaped my lips. How well I remembered his odd scrawl, and how I loved it, just as I loved anything to do with my beloved Papa. Words flew at me like stones – _the role of pageboy is silent, which makes my casting in a word, ideal._

"And this one," M. Andre added, handing me another.

…_our Don Juan must lose some weight; it's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age… As for our star, Miss Christine Daae – no doubt, she'll do her best. It's true, her voice is good; she knows, though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn if pride will let her return to me – her teacher._

"These sound like threats," I exhaled.

"That is precisely what they were, Mademoiselle," he said. "And he followed up on them!"

"How?" My face must have been very pale.

"He killed a stagehand and our leading tenor. He made the chandelier fall during a performance, which resulted in the destruction of the entire building – it burned down."

A strange buzzing seemed to resonate in my ears. Killed! Killed! My father!

"No," I said. "No, it can't be. My father wasn't a murderer, no. He had a temper, a dreadful temper, but he wouldn't… he wouldn't…" I couldn't say it. "And he would never have spoken of Mother in this manner – no! How do you know it was my father?"

"Because, in all his vileness, the Phantom loved one single person – the young soprano Christine Daae. He was obsessed with her. Piangi was killed so that the Phantom could sing with her on the stage."

"He killed… to sing with her?" My mouth was dry. Papa!

"If you don't believe me – I think that is very natural – ask Madame Lefort. I understand you know each other… has she never told you any of it?"

"No," I said, hardly aware of where I was.

"It is the Giry hereditary custom – never reveal anything about Le Fantome," the man chuckled. "Her mother was equally uncooperative. Go to her, Mademoiselle."

"This cannot be." A last, hopeful idea entered my brain. "Although this is very much like my father's handwriting, he couldn't have written it. He believed in always preserving the language of the opera, and Mozart's character is called Don Giovanni. This is a forgery!"

"Ah, but we are not discussing Mozart, Mademoiselle," Andre said quietly. "Your father wrote an opera entitled _Don Juan Triumphant_. Don Giovanni is quite irrelevant. He forced us to perform it – else we would face something dreadful… which happened anyway," he concluded with a helpless shrug.

* * *

I do not remember if the weather was fine, or if it rained. I don't even remember leaving the old man. I almost question the fact that I visited him at all.

Blindly, I walked through Paris. My gait must have seemed aimless; I wouldn't blame people if they questioned my sobriety. All I saw was my Father's adoring gaze I knew so well, his lips forming words of an aria. And his hands, his long, slender fingers I knew so well – but, for the first time, they were tinged with crimson. As I approached Garnier, tinge became a long red line, which widened into a rivulet, which grew into a waterfall of blood.

My father – a murderer, an extortionist! My gentle Papa, a killer! No, it must be a bad dream I can wake from. Meg will set it right. Meg would not lie to me. My father may not have been a saint – I've never heard of a saint with a foul temper – but he would never do those terrible things. My mother could not have loved a murderer, no.

And yet…

In all the times we went to Paris as a family, not once did he cross the threshold of the opera house, and Mother went a handful of times. They rarely ever mentioned anything that took place before their marriage. I instantly remembered Meg's little stumble. Did she mean murder and threats by knocking sense into people?

I stopped in the middle of a boulevard. What if it's all true? No, I can't think of it just yet. My legs resumed their pace.

Papa!

* * *

Having remembered the route, I went directly to Meg's private quarters. At least, fewer people would see my agitation that way. Never mind if I had to wait.

I knocked half-heartedly and was very surprised to hear footsteps from the inside. Meg opened the door. Her eyes widened.

"My God, Elise! You look as if you saw a ghost."

"Almost," I said. "A phantom. Is that what they called my father, Meg?"

I knew it was true by the sheer shock on her face and the look of pain. She ushered me inside and almost shoved me onto a sofa.

"So, who was kind enough to enlighten you?" she asked calmly.

"Enlighten me? Meg, I am twenty-eight years old, and I discover that my father, the man I idolized as long as I lived is a… criminal." The last word came out hesitantly, quietly; I hoped she would scoff and prove the accusation to be false. But her expression was not humorous in the least. Slowly, she placed a hand on each of my shoulders. I lowered my eyes.

"Elisabeth Germaine Mueller, look into my eyes," she said in a tone that could not be disobeyed. I looked up. Her eyes were very serious.

"Now, repeat after me – 'I hate my father.'"

"I cannot do it!" I said. "How can I say that, it isn't true! And yet, he killed, Meg! What am I to think of that? He demanded money…"

"And how do you know he didn't earn it?" Meg asked reasonably. "Elise, there is much you do not know, and, therefore, do not understand. I am not the best person to explain, but I do know some details… anyway, I will tell you what I know to be true. I will not lie – and, before I begin, let me assure you that your parents didn't lie to you, either. They simply didn't tell you everything."

She forced me to take a cup of tea. I remembered that my tea at the old gentleman's apartment remained untouched. Carefully, I took a sip. It was warm, sweet and comforting.

Papa only ever drank tea, with the rare exception of certain brands of red wine.

My eyes filled with tears. I felt Meg's arm come around my shoulders.

"I know it can't be easy. You must be wondering whether the people you loved even existed."

I nodded, trying to focus on the sweetness of the brew instead of the burning in my eyes.

"They did, Elise. Believe me." She shifted a little. "Let me tell you." As she said that, my eyes focused on a fading photograph on the wall. Mother in a light dress, holding a baby. Judging from the date scribbled in a corner, it was Vicky. Mother looked so happy – radiant.

I must at least hear their side of this horror.

I only nodded.

"I grew up with the legend of the Phantom," she began. "Every girl in the ballet dormitories, where I slept even though Mother lived in these very rooms, knew not to go around the building past curfew. You could come face to face with the ghost –or the ballet mistress. I'm not sure which was the scarier prospect."

"We all knew he was real. He sent many notes to the management through my mother. Most were directions on how to stage every detail of every production. I had access to some of them when I got older – he was always meticulous. I can safely say that the finest, most tasteful decisions were made by the Phantom as we knew him then."

A glazed, reminiscent look lit her eyes.

"When I was around six, a new girl joined my mother's class. Her father brought her to study ballet, but I think his eventual goal was for her to advance to chorus and then to solo vocal performances. He never lived to see that happen; he died shortly after bringing her to us."

"My mother took heart to her. She saw her as a second daughter, and we soon grew to be practically sisters. She'd spend an evening with us – we loved little Christine Daae very much."

"I think I felt something when we were around ten," she continued thoughtfully. I woke up in the middle of the night and turned to see if Christine was asleep. Imagine what I felt when I saw her bed empty! I was about to go get Mother, when the dormitory door opened and she came in, fully dressed. I could see that Mother led her in, so I pretended to be sleeping. What surprised me was that Mother wasn't angry, so Christine wasn't caught out of bed. She was doing something that Mother always very strict about preventing."

"And when I asked her about it – Christine, I mean… she gave me a vague answer. She was such an awful liar."

I watched Meg very intensely. She watched me for a few moments, sighed and resumed.

"Only years later did I find out what was going on. Some of it was revealed by my mother, some by yours. Your father, my dear child, was born in a small village, I never knew where. His mother was so revolted by the sight of his face that the first thing she did was to fashion a mask for him, so that she wouldn't have to look at it. He ran away from home when he was around thirteen – he himself was never too sure of his age. I do not know what he did before he met my mother. All I know is that he designed and built the Palais Garnier."

I gasped.

"Garnier was more than happy to use a talent even he admitted to be greater than his own. Your father built the house to his taste – with many secret passages. In fact," Meg rose, "I'll show you something right now." She went into what I presumed to be her bedroom and came out with two cloaks. "Put this on," she said, giving one to me and donning the other one.

I obeyed, even though it was the middle of the summer.

Satisfied that I was dressed, Meg locked the entrance door and walked over to an ornately carved bookcase I had admired on my first visit. Her hand pressed an inconspicuous rosette on its side. I could only watch, open-mouthed, as the heavy piece of furniture swung out, revealing a door. Meg held it open for me.

I entered the dark and was about to ask her a question when a light came on. Meg held a kerosene lamp and moved forward to lead the way.


	7. Chapter 7

7

**I do hope you enjoy this one. Even if you don't, do tell why. I appreciate and answer all the reviews I get.**

We descended for quite some time. It was pitch dark, with the exception of Meg's light. Finally, she stopped.

"We are now in the fifth cellar beneath the opera house," she said. "This is not the only way down, of course, but it is the safest." Sensing my question, she went on. "I'll show you in a few minutes, simply follow me."

After a short walk, we came in sight of an enormous wall. I couldn't see anything strange about it, until we came close enough to discern a door.

"This is the cistern which holds excess water from the lake a little ways from us," Meg spoke. "The cistern was designed exclusively by your father. He suggested making it two-walled for stability's sake," she laughed, "and to make sure he had some space in which to create a dwelling. He hated the world that despised him for his looks and ignored his talents. He created this house to seclude himself completely. All the other ways down are riddled with traps; the road from my mother's sitting room is the only harmless route."

"He lived … here?" I asked. My voice shook, and my cheeks felt very moist.

"For at least ten years, in which he created the reputation of this establishment through his demands. For some of the time, the only person he ever really communicated with was my mother."

"Oh, God," I said weakly.

"I have only a sketchy idea of how he became aware of Christine," she continued. "I think Mother may have mentioned her. And then, he heard her sing – just to herself. And then… Well, you see, your grandfather told her a fairytale about the Angel of Music. So that's what the Phantom told her he was. And she believed him for years."

"I see," I said quietly. "I asked her once where she thought talent comes from. She smiled and said that it was bestowed by a kind angel."

"Precisely," Meg nodded.

"How did she find out?"

"Well, I don't know the details. But her Angel decided that she was ready for her grand debut when she was seventeen. He dropped a prop practically on the head of the then leading lady, who grew angry and left in a huff. Christine substituted her and won great acclaim."

"Wait," I said, something clicking in my brain. "What was the diva's name?"

"Carlotta Giudicelli," Meg answered promptly. "Nasty piece of work who treated everyone worse than the dirt underfoot. Why?"

"No reason," I shrugged.

She did not believe me but let it go. "Several things happened that night. Just as soon as the proud teacher – and he was invariably proud of her talent – was about to congratulate his pupil on her stunning success, a man entered her dressing room. That was the end of the status quo."

"I think I understand," I nodded.

"I am sure you do. I know Raoul de Chagny had frequented the Garnier before that night. And yet, he had never paid heed to the insignificant little ballerina in the back row. A leading soprano was an entirely different matter. He conveniently remembered meeting her as a child… Well, he was very enthusiastic in greeting her that night. Perhaps that scene made the Angel fall, this realization that his protégé had men about her who could distract her from her art… and from him. He took her here and admitted to being nothing but a human being. Somehow – I never quite knew how – Christine saw his face… I imagine that was quite a scene."

"That is why she always insisted on him never wearing the mask when it was just us," I said. "She wanted us to see his face as something mundane, not grotesque."

"Christine returned on the verge of a breakdown. No one understood exactly what happened to her, and she certainly wasn't telling. I felt like a glass wall separated her from everyone else. She'd jump at the slightest noise. At a masquerade we staged for the New Year, the Phantom revealed himself. He demanded his opera to be staged. The managers were too frightened to refuse. Christine was forced to sing the lead…"

"… and the chandelier fell," I finished.

"Found that out, too?" Well, he disappeared that night – for everyone except my mother and myself. We helped him to America, helped him establish himself and ten years later, lo and behold, Christine found us and eventually stayed." She shrugged. "And the Phantom was laid to rest; only Erik Mueller remained."

I nodded.

We stood in silence for a few minutes. I digested this newly-gained intelligence. My initial horror had subsided to a dull ache with unconfirmed origins. My mind whirred, trying to develop a conclusion.

Did I despise my father? Never. Had I found out that he was a mass murderer, a part of me would still have loved him. As it was, he was a misguided person. Humanity, that cruel, dastardly race, showed him nothing but violence. How else could he have retaliated? Naturally, killing those two people, deceiving my mother, causing that fire were all reprehensible, but… Deep down, I knew he had amply punished himself for those deeds. The image of him after Lovisa's diagnosis came to my mind. Was that how he was when he had to part from my mother?

And then Meg's eyes widened. I gave her a questioning look which she did not notice. I turned around, following her disbelieving stare.

Dim, hazy ball of light approached us with an eerily regular speed. Whoever held the lamp was obviously familiar enough with the surroundings – more so than Meg had been. We watched the specter approach in fascination. As the figure grew closer, I gasped. That height, that posture…

"It's Lovisa!" I exclaimed.

"Good God," Meg said. "How did she make it down here alive?"

Her steps seemed more uncertain – she saw she wasn't alone. But approach she did, with the air of a proprietress whose domain was invaded. When she discerned our features at last, a wave of relief seemed to consume her. She sighed and spoke, having placed her lantern on the ground.

_Thank God it's you – Meg, Elise, what a fright you gave me! Who knows who it could have been?_

"Lovisa," I said, my voice shaky – how many shocks could I take in a day? "what in heavens' name are you doing here?"

She looked guilty.

_You will hate me, I know you will. I came here to retrieve something. It's time. Father meant it to happen after his death, but I couldn't have come with the war. I am sorry, Elise. Whatever the manner of your discovery was, it wasn't supposed to happen this way._

"So you knew Papa lived here?" I asked.

_Yes, dear, he told me himself. He took me here, showed how to enter unharmed, and all because he meant us all to know one day. It was my task to tell you._

Meg moved towards Lovisa, watching her carefully. She was torn between disbelief and strange sort of understanding. In a way, it made sense, I supposed. Even if she was the youngest of us girls, she was the oldest in certain terms. She could understand him better than any other, because, no matter how much you are loved, no matter how normal your life is, a flaw poses a barrier between you and the world. Lovisa was able to bridge the gap Papa invariably felt, and that produced an entirely unique relationship between them. They could understand each other innately, with hardly a syllable passing their lips. I saw it happen many times.

"What did he mean you to tell us?" I asked, wetting lips that felt like cracked parchment.

_That we were the only salvation from despair he could find. That in Mother and in us four lay the meaning of his life. And that there were sins on his soul that pained him to the very end… but how come you here?_

"That, my dear, is a question I wish to be answered as well," Meg said

I told then everything. Meg spoke thoughtfully.

"I would very much like to see that note whenever you can bring it to me. Perhaps I know the handwriting. Very few people remain who could know enough to write it, and I probably know all of them."

I nodded.

Several silent, awkward minutes passed as we stood gazing at one another. Finally, Meg cleared her throat.

"Lovisa, you are sure you know how to lead Elise out?"

_Yes_, Lovisa nodded solemnly.

"In that case, I take my leave. I'm certain you won't be bored without me."

Lovisa and I cracked identical weak smiles. I gave Meg a quick hug.

"Thank you, dear," I said. "You helped me so much."

"Glad to hear it," she grinned. And left.

Lovisa and I remained, alone in the dim glow of the lantern. She watched me with apprehension; perhaps she thought I would take whatever temper I was in out on her. I took a deep breath.

"Darling, you look as if you expected me to hit you. I swear I'm not going to."

_If you did, I would say I deserve it._

"Whatever Papa told you was between him and you. I respect that… It's just… it's a bit of a pill I have to swallow. Papa killing people… you'll forgive me if I find that to be shocking."

_I understand. I found it hard to believe. What do you think of him now, dear?_

What _did_ I think of him? Looking around, I saw a large rock with a smooth surface. I sat down and took my time.

So, Papa had a shady past. I couldn't honestly say that was a complete shock. So, he killed… more than once. That was wrong. He extorted, killed, hurt…

But he was my father! My loving, adoring, worshipping Papa! Everything I was had his touch on it; he opened doors into wondrous worlds. Music, art, imagination – what would I know of those without him? What would I do without him in my life?

There are so many things I miss about him. His rare but sincere laughter; his pride that washed over you like a golden waterfall; his eyes, so deep and penetrating that they saw down to your soul…

* * *

"Practice, practice, Elise. Anything that is worth anything has a price. I would know."

"But, Papa! I've played it six times already! You can't honestly ask me to do it again!"

"I can and I do – now, from this note, nice and smoothly – the longer you argue, the longer you'll sit at this piano. You know I won't let you go until you get through it without a hitch. Go on now."

Mother chose that moment to enter the room with fresh crimson roses she usually kept on a table in the music room.

"Mother!" I exclaimed, jumping up from the stool. "Papa means to wear my fingers to the bone; tell him to have pity on me!"

She chucked.

"I would, darling, if I thought it would help. But I know it will be a waste of my breath. Do you know, he made me sing an aria sixteen times over before he was satisfied?"

"Actually, the record was twenty when you were fifteen, my dear," Papa said with a wicked glint in his eyes. "For the love of everything that was holy, you wouldn't sing _O Mio Babbino Caro_ properly."

"Twenty times?" My mouth must have been hanging open.

"Yes, so don't look for any sympathy from me," Mother laughed and went off.

I turned my eyes to the music in front of me. And then, without warning, I felt two arms wrap themselves around my waist and a chin press lightly on my right shoulder. The embrace was so warm – I was lost in its comfort.

"I know I sound as if all I care about is perfection," Papa's golden voice flowed into my ear, "but do you know why, my dear? Because I know you are capable of achieving perfection. It is very wrong to ignore your capabilities – your potential must always be thoroughly tapped." I could sense the smile he had on his face. _Maybe he'll let me take a break, at least… _"Now, let me hear it one more time."

I sighed and proceeded to play the dratted concerto for the seventh time in a row.


	8. Chapter 8

8

**Sorry for the delay – finals, you know. Hopefully, that's the longest I'll take to update. Please review!**

I do not know how long the silence lasted. When I came to my senses, I found myself still sitting on the rock, with my head bent forward and my cheeks wet. Looking up, I saw Lovisa standing nearby. She hadn't moved an inch.

"I love him," I said. There was no other answer.

She nodded with a smile slowly flowering on her face.

"I mean, how could I not? He is my father! I grew up loving him, and nothing can change that. He was the best father in the world, whatever else he's done."

_That's exactly what I think, darling_, Lovisa said, coming very close to me and placing a hand on my shoulder. _Come, I must show you something._

I rose. Her left hand cupped my elbow and gently pushed, to indicate the necessity to move. We came closer to the door. Lovisa released me and opened the small handbag that hung on her elbow. A key emerged – rather innocent-looking and plain. Ever confident, she inserted it into the appropriate hole. Then, as if remembering something, she went back to retrieve the lantern.

When the door swung open I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. Blackness reigned within; somehow, it seemed even thicker than that of the catacombs that surrounded us. Such blackness!

Lovisa led on, entering the "house" as if she has done it many times. We went down what appeared to have been a hallway into a larger room. Even the rough outline of the place was indiscernible in the weak flame of the lantern.

I heard a muffled rustling and saw a long, thin wooden stick in my sister's hand. She opened the lantern's side and lit it off the candle inside. Then, with graceful movement, she set about lighting the candles around the room. It seemed odd to me that she would know the layout so well – but then her memory was always good and she had obviously been here before.

The room became clearer in stages. Little puddles of light deepened and broadened, until the entire area was basking in a warm, flickering glow. With a pang, I realized that an evening with candlelight was much cozier than the familiar cold glow of electricity.

Now that I could glance about the room, the visual became clearer – and more dismal. The room, once a somewhat elegant chamber, showed signs of disrepair. Furniture, mostly broken, was scattered throughout. The place had the distinct impression of being abandoned in a hurry.

"How many times have you been here, exactly?" I asked, hoping that my voice sounded reasonably nonchalant.

_Only once in the house. Papa led me down the most accessible road three or four times before he was satisfied I could get through safely. There are many traps along the way, you know. It's easy to walk right into one of them. But he wanted me to know how to get here, so that I could one day show this to you and Vicky and Pierre._

"Why did he not show it to us himself?"

_Several reasons – Mother did not wish him to, mainly because she wanted him to think as little of that time as possible. And he wasn't sure you would understand. He was very much afraid it would make you despise him. He could not have borne that._

"I may be surprised, but I am not disgusted," I replied. "But I'm glad he told you, that must have made it a little easier."

_I think so_, Lovisa nodded. _I was actually fascinated with this place. Just the structure – imagine how Pierre would adore the thought of a dwelling in between two walls of a cistern. And the traps are extremely clever in their own way, too. It's a system of trapdoors – ingenious, really, albeit terrifying._

"So he lived here?" I asked, strangely curious. It was simply impossible to imagine my father living underground. He was a recluse, indisputably, but even so…

_Yes. He lived here for a little over a decade, I think. When the house burned down, he escaped to the States and did not return here for just as long._

I nodded. I knew Papa did not come to Paris until he married Mother. Now I understood why. It was his silent resolution to leave the woman he loved to her peace. The peace, incidentally, that she had never been able to find anywhere but at his side. The part of me that occasionally read romance novels suddenly realized that none of those could ever hope to compare with what my parents had. If there was ever love that survived passage of time and obstacles, theirs was it.

I sat on one of the very few chairs that remained whole. Lovisa found another one and settled down next to me.

"What happened here?" I asked, motioning to indicate the odd disrepair. If Papa lived here for such a long time, why wasn't the place in meticulous order? Dust I could explain, but the sheer carnage of broken objects was a mystery.

_Well_, Lovisa looked uncomfortable. _I … You see, when the chandelier fell – Meg did tell you that, didn't she?_ I nodded. _Papa brought Mama here to persuade her to permit his affections. He could see that the Vicomte was a suitor of hers. The Vicomte decided to help the girl. He came here… Papa nearly killed him, he was so angry. If he did… Mama would have hated him, he said, and he couldn't have borne it… So he let them go together. Mama was very frightened of him. I do not blame her. Anyway, she and the young man went off together, but there was a crowd of angry opera employees that descended on this place. Papa left before they could harm him, but the house was not so fortunate. They destroyed all they could find._

I nodded thoughtfully. What a night of terror – for both of them. Whatever people believed of my father based on the stories I learned today, he did not enjoy inflicting pain on others. I've seen him after some Earth-shattering disputes – with Mother, Pierre, theater staff, performers, some people I never quite knew the identity of – and, no matter how angry he was at the time, pain invariably came afterwards, especially if he felt he had been overreacting, and doubly so if the opponent was his wife or child. Papa's problem was that, if he was incensed enough, reason turned into cold cruelty. When he stopped to think, he generally conceded that the argument was not worth it. Mother was even able – on occasion – to force him to admit he was wrong. He used to say that she was his soul and conscience that lost their way to him when he was born.

I woke from my thoughts and saw that Lovisa was entering the room through a side door. I had not realized she walked out. Her hands were empty, except for the handbag she carried.

_Are you all right?_ she inquired.

"Yes, of course, darling, quite well. This must have been a fine room."

_Yes, Papa liked his comfort – even here, under the ground… Dear, will I show you the rest?_

"Oh, yes please," I said, eager for movement. The mere thought of hundreds of feet of foundation and ground made me uneasy – and my poor Father lived here for years.

The house was of a modest size, but very comfortable – there was a library with its shelves glaringly empty – Lovisa explained that whatever little survived the mob was reclaimed by Father, a music room with remnants of an organ, a piano and several unfortunate violins strewn about, and two bedrooms. Both were effectively destroyed. The first had clearly belonged to a woman; there were dusty hairbrushes and cracked scent bottles littering the vanity. Furniture here was simple yet elegant, covered in classic cherry finish. With a knowing smile, I recalled that the furniture in Mother's study and bodoir at the villa was of the same color; it had been her favorite, and her adoring Angel took care to cater to her taste in all things. The other bedroom contained furniture of uncompromising black. Poor Father… I stood transfixed at the foot of what must have been his bed, overcome by a frantic wave of tears.

Lovisa led me out, her arm wrapped securely about my shoulders.

* * *

Back in our apartment, I sat on my bed, trying to digest this person I discovered today. Well, with a chance to reflect, I realized that this was not a discovery – more of filling in the missing pieces. It changed nothing, I decreed to myself. Others may think of my father as a monster – let them. I don't care.

What did concern me now was that my father's past was known to others. Stephanie knew something, of that I was sure. And whoever was the author of the note… they knew and they meant to destroy the idol we, his children, had created in our minds. I grew nervous. Had Vicky and Pierre received anything? How did they interpret it if they did? Vicky, for one, had a bit of a self-righteous streak that manifested itself on occasion. She hated lies and double standards – mostly because many had assumed that her way was paved for her by Papa's money and influence. We all suffered from similar assumptions. In a way, I was grateful for my relatively modest dancing skill, because it kept me out of direct limelight. I was the least remarkable of us all, and it suited me well. I liked to be in my siblings' shadow, admiring, cheering, comforting, supporting, but never too obvious to those outside our circle.

Suddenly, I felt a longing for us all to be together again. My soul cried for Papa's strong arms, Mama's steady gaze, Vicky's laughter, Pierre's show of unaffected disdain for all that was remotely serious. They were inaccessible, but my darling Lovisa was here, so easy to approach and embrace and confess everything to. Where was Lovisa?

I left the bedroom's confines and set off in search of my sister. I found her in the kitchen, leafing through the paper. I came from behind and wrapped my arms around her neck.

"Elise," she acknowledged with a hint of a grin in her voice.

"I'm just so happy to have you. To have all of you. And to have had Mama and Papa."

"I know, dear. I feel the same way, and they all did and do too."

I was very happy, indeed.


End file.
